Trace of Magic: 1 (The Diamond City Magic Novels)

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  “What do you want?”

  He slid my coffee out of my hand and took a sip, then eyed it in surprise. “That’s good,” he said.

  “Not to mention it’s mine,” I said, eyeing him balefully. It was the best coffee in town, though I’d not yet creamed and sugared it to suit my taste buds. He seemed to like his black.

  He set the cup down, then ran his fingers through his hair. He was the carefully controlled type, so his gesture startled me. I examined him. He didn’t look any better than I did. His eyes were sunken, and grooves cut deeply around his nose and mouth.

  “You know, if you’re hungry, there are other tables. Empty tables,” I pointed out.

  He sipped my coffee again. “But you’re not sitting at the other tables.”

  A frisson of foreboding rippled through me. I shivered. It had nothing to do with cold. “You came looking for me?”

  “I knew you were a smart woman.”

  “Why?”

  He pulled a manila file from inside his leather jacket and set it on the table. “I want you to do a trace for me.”

  Like I said before, my cardinal rule is not to be stupid. Taking a case working for Price—a cop and a Tyet enforcer—was the dictionary definition of stupid. Insane even. I didn’t even think before I said, “No.”

  Price didn’t seem to notice. He shoved the file across the gray Formica.

  I looked at it and then back at him. “Maybe you have a hearing problem,” I said. “I’ll speak slower. No. I’m busy. If you want me on a trace, you’re going to have to wait your turn. Give me your card. I’ll call you in a few days.” Like hell I would. I wouldn’t call him if I was buried alive and he owned the only shovel on the entire planet.

  I started to get up. He grabbed my arm and yanked me back down. “You don’t seem to understand, Miss Hollis. You’re working for me until I find what I’m looking for. Unless, of course, you want me crawling over you like stink on shit. In that case, I’ll make your life so interesting you won’t have time to sleep.”

  Interesting was code for he would dog my ass all the way to hell if necessary. He would, too. Detective Clay Price was a pit bull. He didn’t know the meaning of “back off.” Once he got his teeth into you, you’d be dragging him around like a ball and chain until you gave in or died.

  I stared at him. How did I get out of this? He watched me back with a look of cold calculation, the way a snake watches a cornered mouse.

  I had a feeling he saw a lot more than I wanted him to see. “Wait a second. Working for you?” I asked, his words finally eating their way into my brain. “This is personal?” What was so important about this trace that he came looking for me rather than use someone on the Tyet’s payroll? I mean, it’s obvious why he didn’t use a cop tracer. They were mediocre. The Tyet owned the best. Well, except for me, and they don’t have a clue how good I am.

  His upper lip twitched—almost into a snarl—but then his face smoothed into an unreadable mask. He said nothing.

  “You don’t want anyone to know about this,” I mused out loud, sure I was right.

  A flicker of something cold and black ran across his face. If I hadn’t been trying to catch a reaction I would have missed it.

  “That’s right,” he said, and I shivered at the stony ruthlessness in his tone.

  “Why?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Exactly. Since we’re in agreement, I’ll be hitting the bricks now.”

  I began to stand up, but he grabbed my arm so tight his knuckles turned white. It hurt. I twisted to get away, and he only tightened his grip.

  That did it. I slid my telescoping baton out of my sleeve into my palm and flicked it open. I snapped it down on the back of his wrist. I was careful not to hit hard enough to break bone. That would have been a fatal mistake. He jerked away with a yelp.

  Everyone in the diner turned to look. Good. He wouldn’t want a scene. I stood and started past him for the door. Before I’d gone two steps, he had ahold of my arm again. He hauled me down into the booth beside him and held me tight to his side, keeping me from using my baton again. With his free hand, he pressed something burning cold against my neck. Shock made me go stiff. Did the fucker tab me?

  I elbowed him hard in the ribs. He grunted, but didn’t let me go.

  “Listen, you cat,” he said roughly against my ear. “If you don’t settle down, I’m going to drag you across the street to the precinct and book you for assaulting an officer.”

  For a second I considered calling his bluff, but I doubted it would get me out from under his thumb. With the tab, he could follow me anywhere. Unless, of course, I broke its magic, and if I did that, he’d know I wasn’t as weak as I pretended to be. Which meant the Tyet would know. That would be epically stupid. I stopped fighting.

  “Good girl,” he said like I was a dog and eased his hold, still keeping a firm arm around me. “Now, have a look at the file.” He shoved it toward me again.

  The low hum of conversation had resumed, along with the clatter of plates and the click of Patti’s heels as she hurried back and forth behind the counter topping off coffees. Through the window into the kitchen, I could see Ben scowling at me. He was holding a boning knife and looked like he was ready to come over the counter and gut Price. I gave him a little shake of my head.

  “Smart,” Price said, watching the exchange.

  I shook him off and compressed my baton before sliding it back up into my sleeve. Heat poured off his body like a stove, and he smelled delicious. I bet that’s what rats thought about the cheese right before the trap snapped their necks.

  I shoved the thought away and opened the file. There wasn’t much in it. Just a single picture with a name on the bottom: Corbin Nader. He was blond, with a rounded jaw and a white smile. He was dressed in a gray suit and tie, and he had a hundred-dollar haircut.

  “What’s he done?” I asked, knowing full well I wasn’t going to get a straight answer.

  “He’s got information I want,” Price said, proving me right. “I need him found, and now.”

  I turned the picture over. I needed something personal, something this Corbin Nader had touched, to pick up the trace. “Is this all you’ve got?”

  “I’ve got his apartment,” Price said. He nudged me with his hip. “We can be there in a half hour.”

  I shook my head. “Not before we settle on what you’re paying me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What do you have in mind?”

  I had in mind tripling my daily rate. “Six hundred a day.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re a hack. You work out of a diner.”

  I shrugged. “I told you to find someone else. But if you want me, you pay me.”

  He grimaced. “All right. But this is your only case until you find him.”

  Holy shit. He must be desperate. “Oh, and another two hundred a day for the tabbing.” I rubbed my neck, but the spell wouldn’t be wiped away so easily. Given how strongly the magic radiated, I’d have to pay through the nose to have the spell broken. Might as well get paid for being lojacked.

  “Don’t push it,” he growled.

  “Who’s pushing?” I demanded. “You’re forcing me to work for you, and you tabbed me so you can follow me anywhere I go. Call it a privacy tax. Take off the tab, and you don’t have to pay it.”

  “Not a chance,” he said, baring his teeth in what might have been a smile. If it was, he needed practice. “All right. Eight hundred a day. Let’s go.” He scooted against me, shoving me to the end of the bench.

  “I want three days up front,” I said.

  He glared at me, and I swear there was steam coming out of his ears. “You think it’s going to take you three days?”

  “Might. Don’t worry. I’ll give you a refund if it doesn�
�t—except for your privacy tax. I’ll be keeping that. But you haven’t given me a lot of reason to trust you.” I touched the spot on my neck where he’d stuck the tab. “I’d just as soon be sure I get paid.”

  His mouth twisted, and his hand clenched on the gray Formica tabletop. For a second I was sure he was going to blow up. Then he just reached into his leather jacket and pulled out his phone. He called up his bank and asked me for my account. I gave him the number. He typed it in and shoved his phone back in his pocket. “Done.”

  I thumbed the screen on my phone. Twenty-four hundred bucks had been added to my account total. The weight of that payment crushed the last of my excuses not to work for him. “Good enough,” I sighed and then got up, grabbing my coat off its hook.

  I’m not short. I stand at around five foot ten in my bare feet. My boots put me at almost six feet. Even so, the top of my forehead barely came to the bottom of his nose.

  “Leaving?” Patti asked, coming around to stand between Price and the door.

  She stood only about five foot nothing, wearing knee-high boots with four-inch heels. She wore a jean miniskirt with fishnets and a tightfitting black shirt. She held two full pots of coffee and she was ready to dump them on Price. She looked like a Chihuahua facing off against a pit bull. I’d put my money on her.

  “I’ve got a job,” I told her.

  She looked at Price and then back at me. “Are you drunk?”

  I wished. “Not yet.”

  Patti was older than me by about five years, but we were as close as sisters. Check that. Closer, because my sister Taylor is kind of an alien. Or maybe I am. I love her to death, but we really don’t get each other very well. Anyway, Patti and I are two peas.

  “Friends don’t let friends walk blindly off cliffs,” she said. “How much is he paying you?”

  “Too much,” Price said, starting to push past her.

  She gave him her patented stand-still-or-I’ll-kill-you look, and as usual, it worked. She turned her attention back to me. “Are you okay with this?”

  I shrugged. “Not really, but he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse,” I said sourly. “At least the pay is good.”

  “Call me later,” she ordered after a considering moment. She glared at Price. “You hurt her in any way, and I’ll make sure you don’t survive to your next birthday.”

  He snorted softly. “I’ll remember.”

  “You’d better.” She stepped aside. I gave her a quick hug before leading the way out.

  The Diamond City Diner sat on the corner of Atlantic and Sod streets. Its tables were rarely empty. Down the block and across the street was the 4th Precinct and beside it, Firehouse 11. The weatherman had promised a good two feet of snow, and already there were a couple of inches on the ground. I zipped up my coat but didn’t bother with my hat and gloves, figuring Price would have a car close by.

  He gripped my elbow and turned me up the sidewalk away from the precinct. We’d covered a couple of blocks before I began to wonder if he had any plans to stop. My hair was wet and his head had a mound of white capping it.

  “Are we walking there?” I asked in annoyance as I skidded on a patch of ice.

  He looked down, almost like he’d forgotten me. “No.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. The heavy snow swirled in the air and hid most of the street. Price pulled me suddenly into a doorway between Riker’s clothing store and Roadkill Bikes. Before I could protest, he pushed me behind him.

  “Company,” he warned.

  Lovely. Somebody was following us, and Price didn’t expect them to be friendly. Nice of him to shield me. ’Course, I wouldn’t have needed it if he hadn’t blackmailed me into working for him. I shoved the thought aside. Shit happens and all that, but trouble was here and now. I opened myself to the trace.

  Strings of light flickered out over the pavement and sidewalks. They melded into thick cables—too many strands to differentiate between them. I focused on the brightest threads, the ones belonging to people here now. On a busy street like this, most tracers couldn’t pick out a live person’s trace from one left behind an hour before. I could.

  A half-dozen people strode up the sidewalk behind us. Price’s bulk prevented me from seeing them. He seemed to think one or all were threats. He wasn’t the nervous type, so in the name of preparation, I pulled my Ruger out of my coat pocket.

  “Try not to shoot me in the ass with that, would you?” Price said, glancing back at me.

  “Don’t get in my way and I won’t. Maybe.”

  The corner of his mouth curved up. It was almost a smile. I wondered if it hurt.

  “I’m beginning to regret paying you up front.”

  Then his attention was back on the sidewalk. I edged to the left, trying to get a view. He grabbed me and shoved me back behind him. I was getting really tired of him manhandling me. Then again, if he wanted to take the heat so I could walk away free, who was I to argue?

  Three pedestrians passed by, never pausing. That left three more. From what I could tell, they were walking slowly, spread out across the sidewalk. The one in the middle was flanked by two others trailing a couple of steps behind. Not good. That seemed too organized for casual strollers.

  I waited, wondering what Price would do. Not a lot of people would be willing to take him on. Whoever was after him was risking a lot. Price was a known asset for one of the biggest Tyet organizations. Going after him would earn some serious retaliation. The trio was totally insane, if you asked me.

  The three followers slowed and started to bunch together. Damn. No way they could see us, so that meant they had to have a tracer with them. I touched one of my nulls in my pocket. It was short-term and weak. If I’d known there was a chance we were going to trap ourselves in a doorway with three goons hunting us down, I’d have nulled us out.

  Suddenly I had an idea. I turned and checked the door. It was locked, but with an old-fashioned key lock. I smiled and shoved my gun back into my outer coat pocket. I slipped my lockpicks from the coat’s breast pocket and went to work. It took me less than ten seconds. It was a crappy lock.

  I twisted the knob and slipped inside, pulling Price after me. His eyes widened, but he followed. I turned the deadbolt, and then pulled two nulls out of my pocket. They were cat-eye marbles, the kind that come in quarterbags at the toy store. I put one in his hand and invoked it, then did the same to mine. If we were lucky, we could escape the building before the goons caught sight of us.

  “Come on,” Price said.

  He dashed up the narrow stairs as someone rattled the door behind us. Gunshots sounded. Wood splintered in the door and stairs. I stumbled, bashing my shin as I missed the step.

  Price grabbed my hand and hauled me up after him. “Do you want to get dead?”

  He didn’t let me go as he pulled me down the hall. I was still wrestling with my panic and clung to him like a child. He tested the knobs of each door. None gave. He finally stopped at the end. “Pick it,” he hissed as someone crashed against the door downstairs. He stepped past me and drew his gun. He carried a .44 Desert Eagle. A hand cannon. I could have made a joke about a man overcompensating, but decided it wasn’t the time. Occasionally, I have moments of reason.

  I went to work with my picks, trusting I wasn’t going to get shot in the back. If there was one thing I could trust about Price, his aim was good and he wasn’t afraid to kill. And the faster I opened the door, the faster we’d be hidden. I was hoping we’d have time to figure out an escape that didn’t involve bullets and bodies.

  The lock gave, and I opened the door. There were no lights on. I gave a quick, low whistle, but Price was already shoving in after me. The man had to have eyes in his ass.

  He locked the knob and the dead bolt behind us. The curtains were closed, and there was precious little light. I jammed my kn
ee into the corner of something hard and sharp as I went across the room to open the drape. I clamped my teeth to keep from swearing.

  “What now?” I whispered. Now that I had a moment to take everything in, my hands shook with adrenaline and fear.

  Price toured the apartment before coming to look out the window. We were on the corner of the building above the bike shop. Outside, a fire ladder was bolted just below the window. There was no landing. Price slid open the window and motioned for me to climb out, then went back to the front door. I assumed he was watching for our pursuers out the peephole.

  I hoisted myself up on the sill and slid out feet first. The steel was frigid and slippery, and I had to twist myself around onto my stomach. At last I was facing inward again with one foot securely on a rung. I started down. About halfway to the ground, the ladder ended. I looked over my shoulder and groaned. It was another fifteen feet to the pavement.

  I squatted on the ladder and gripped the bottom rung tightly, then let my feet go. My weight hit my arms with a jolt. I dangled a moment, then dropped.

  I flexed my knees to absorb the shock, and then scooted up against the building as Price followed me down. I opened my mouth to ask who was after us, but I didn’t want to waste time and give them a chance to find us. So I kept silent and motioned him on. That startled Price. He gave me an appraising look, then grabbed my hand and pulled me through the thickening curtain of snow. I gritted my teeth and fought the urge to twist myself away. I was a tracer, for crap’s sake. I wasn’t going to lose him. And given that the fucker had tabbed me, he wasn’t in any danger of losing me, either.

  We hadn’t gone far up the alley when my phone buzzed against my thigh. I pulled it out and checked the display. It was a text from my sister, Taylor. I opened it, then stopped dead, yanking out of Price’s grasp. All it said was: 911.

  In our entire lives, no matter what was going on, she’d never sent an emergency message. She had told me more than once that she wanted it to count, so that if I got one, I’d know it was real, and not just a hangnail or a stubbed toe.